


Deliberately Obtuse

by clarinetchica, MrsNoggin



Series: A Guide to Communication [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Wise Old Greg, communications failures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetchica/pseuds/clarinetchica, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg took a leisurely sip of his lager. He was quite obviously not looking at his friend. Not in a particularly rude way, more of a <i>think about what I just said<i> kind of way. John didn’t want to think about it, if he was honest.</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>An evening out with Greg and his sage advice does not end entirely as planned. - A collaboration fic from Clarinetchica & MrsNoggin. Because we can.</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliberately Obtuse

**Author's Note:**

> One evening, not so long ago, Clarinetchica and I decided to collaborate on a story together. It's undoubtedly going to end up a series. This is the first. 
> 
> It was written jointly pretty much in one go, each of us contributing a small section at a time. I have tried to edit it together to keep it fairly smooth, but while keeping each person's narrative tone as first composed. There may be a few bumps along the way, but put them down to my editing, I don't mind.

* * *

 

_BORED!- SH_

_What do you want me to do about it? –JW_

_Fix it. Give me something to do-SH_

_How about cleaning out the fridge- JW_

_Very funny- SH_

_I need some- SH_

_Pick up cigarettes on your way home- SH_

_No- JW_

_Fine. –SH_

 That was the text that worried John. Sherlock never agreed to something so simply unless he had another plan. After waiting another ten minutes, he decided that he really needed to call him. John knew he had been incredibly bored lately, and he was afraid that Sherlock would resort to something drastic in order to keep the seeming tedium of his life at bay.

He made his apologies to Greg, who was, as ever with matters regarding Sherlock, pleasantly understanding. "I'll get the next round in while you sort him."  
  
John took a deep breath, trying not to jab at the speed dial. Sherlock was number one, of course, as if he'd have it any other way. He picked up after only half a ring.  
  
He didn't _sound_ guilty, but who knew what was really going on at the other end of the line. "What now?"  
  
John emptied the stored breath from his lungs, "Just making sure you're not up to something dreadful in my absence." The question was clear in his voice.  
  
"No," Sherlock said sullenly, "I have not been getting up to "something dreadful" as you so put it."  
  
"Yes, well, you can't blame me for worrying.”  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Yes, well, back to your outing with Lestrade. I'm sure I'll find _something_ to do."  
  
"Just try not to burn the flat down."  
  
John hit the end call button, setting his phone down on the table.  
  
"Got that all sorted out then?" Lestrade asked, reappearing with two beers.  
  
"Yeah, he's just bored."  
  
"That never ends well," Lestrade laughed, "Remember when he set the table on fire?"  
  
"Oh God, I'll never forget that one," John said, chuckling, "The fireman yelling at Sherlock. It took a triple homicide to pull him out of that strop."  
  
He could see it at that moment, Sherlock’s slightly singed eyebrows, his grubby grey face. He could hear the clacking of Sherlock’s jaw as he snapped it closed at the fireman’s temper explosion. John didn’t blame the man in the slightest. As he remembered, his flatmate had accused him quite soundly of being an idiot, and ruining a perfectly salvageable experiment.  
  
John giggled into his pint, but his laughter faded as he realised a strange sort of silence had descended over their table. Greg looked at him, down to his drink, back at John, at his hands. He smiled to himself.  
  
Finally John sighed, “What?”  
  
Greg shook his head, turning his head to stare at the match on the television.  
  
"What?" John asked, more forceful this time.  
  
"How long have you been living with Sherlock?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face. John found it particularly annoying.  
  
“Well, it’s been about two years since he returned from the dead.”  
  
"Yeah, I remember. I was there."  
  
"Then why the hell are you even bothering to ask me this. You know the answer already."  
  
"No reason," Greg shrugged, turning his attention back to the match.  
  
John looked sharply at his friend, his tone was far too innocent for him to believe that it really was for no particular reason.  
  
Greg was taking a leisurely sip of his lager, and quite obviously not looking at his friend. Not in a particularly rude way, more of a _think about what I just said_ kind of way. John didn’t want to think about it, if he was honest. He spent far too long thinking about it; Sherlock’s fall, his return, everything in between, everything after.  
  
“What are you getting at here, Greg?” He pressed.  
  
Greg tipped his head from side to side, as if trying to gather his words together before he let them out of his mouth. It was not a good sign. “Just, well, wondering if you ever thought about your relationship –“  
  
“Friendship,” John interrupted.  
  
“Yes, your friendship. You’re very close.”  
  
“We are. He’s a good friend.”  
  
“No, he’s not.”  
  
“No,” John admitted, “He’s a shit friend. But he tries, and that’s what matters.”  
  
“Is it? Is it really?”  
  
"Of course it is," John replied quickly.  
  
Greg snorted in disbelief, burying his face in his glass as John glared.  
  
"You know Greg, whatever you're trying to say...just come out and say it. I get enough cryptic at home, I don't need it when I'm out, too."  
  
"You _really_ haven't figured it out yet?"  
  
"Now you're sounding like Sherlock," John accused.  
  
"Well, you're I think you're being deliberately obtuse."  
  
"And now you _really_ sound like him," John laughed. "Just spit it out."  
  
"Well, you spend an awful lot of time with Sherlock. When was the last time you went on a date, John?"  
  
He sat up, staring at Greg, "What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
Greg was serious again, his teasing smile had faded, “A fair bit, I’d say.”  
  
John knew what was coming. He’d known for while; Greg was no idiot. And he was right, it had been ages. So many ages, in fact, that John couldn’t even remember. There had been what’s-her-name from that wedding he’d been to, and then Laura who he’d accidentally met online, but she had been months ago. His silence spoke for him really. Greg just nodded and looked away again, as if to give John a moment to freak out by himself.  
  
"Have you ever," Greg started, and then stopped, swirling his drink around carefully in his hand. "You could always..." He trailed off again.  
  
“Don’t even go there. Seriously. I mean it.” John tried not to grind his teeth.  
  
“You know, you should –“  
  
“No. I really shouldn’t.”  
  
“Just try –“ He continued, regardless.  
  
“Not listening to you?”  
  
"Damn it, John, let me finish," Greg set his glass down with a little too much force. "Just think about it. I mean it."  
  
A roar filled the pub; the match had finished. John had lost track of it a while back. Some of the other patrons began to filter out slowly.  
  
"Hey, you owe me 20 quid – your lot lost," John said, glad to change the subject back to the football.  
  
Greg grumbled and fished out his wallet, handing over the money. "It's past time that I leave," he said, standing up and slipping into his jacket, "Myc will be home soon."  
  
John stood with him and they walked out into the cool air, a welcome change from the over-crowded pub. They promised to meet up soon, each taking off into the night. Walking home, John realized he had to face the ideas that Greg had put into his head. If he were being honest, they had been floating around in there for awhile, but he had never allowed himself to actively consider the implications.  
  
It should have only been a short stroll home, but John took the long way, which involved walking twice around the block and standing outside the door for another five minutes. This was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. It wasn't like this was some marvellous epiphany. He frowned at the door-knocker. It wasn't marvellous at all.  
  
The hall was dark, when he finally went inside. There didn’t appear to be any smoke, or firemen, or anything out of the ordinary. He wondered if Sherlock had given up being bored and just gone to bed.  
  
Apparently not.  
  
His thoughts were elsewhere as he climbed the seventeen steps, allowing hands to hands to grab him roughly as he entered the flat. John reacted automatically, spinning his attacker around and pinning him against the door.  
  
"What the fuck, Sherlock?" he hissed, adrenaline coursing through him.  
  
Sherlock smirked at John, neatly twisting him around, leaving John as the one being pinned.  
  
He wondered briefly what had gotten into him before their lips met, bringing John's mind to a grinding halt. Then all he seemed to be able to focus on was the feeling of Sherlock pressed against him, the feeling of his tongue as it swept along John's bottom lip, begging for entrance.  
  
Sherlock curled his tongue around John's, exploring his mouth thoroughly. John moaned, and it brought him back to his senses. Pushing Sherlock away, he fought to catch his breath.  
  
"What the fuck?"

"I believe you already asked that question, John."  
  
“Yeah, I, well, this...” John stopped and wondered what his problem was. The space in front him seemed suddenly disturbingly empty, whereas only seconds ago it had been filled with exactly what he had wanted, needed, for so long. Forever, perhaps.   
  
"I just, this is a bit... weird."  
  
"How so?" Sherlock looked genuinely curious.  
  
"You know," John gestured helplessly between them, "You, me, whatever this is."  
  
A flash of worry passed over Sherlock features, "You don't want this? Have I miscalculated?”  
  
Was this some kind of trick? An experiment? Was John being played around with? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, or even the hundredth. Perhaps this is what Sherlock had been getting up to while John was out; hatching up some scheme or test.  
  
Sherlock had obviously followed John’s thoughts by the play of emotions on his face. He smiled slyly, “You should have said something John. All this time wasted.”  
  
John didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he grabbed hold of Sherlock’s shirtfront instead, and hauled him back against his chest. Sherlock’s mouth was firm against his own, pushing and determined, sucking and biting and giving as good as he got. And John gave it good.  
  
A long-fingered hand wove into his hair, tipping his head back and then Sherlock was at his neck, teasing, torturing, worshipping. John bit his lip, a soft moan escaping as he pressed his head against the wall. His hands came up, gently untucking Sherlock's aubergine shirt, pressing his fingers along the sliver of skin he exposed.

Sherlock shivered, sucking sharply at John's neck.  
  
"Wait," John said, voice breathy as Sherlock peppered kisses along the line of his jaw.

"What _exactly_ are we doing here?"

"I should think that obvious," Sherlock said softly, pulling John's earlobe between his teeth.

"Stop that, I can't think when you do that," John chided softly.

"Then I suggest you stop thinking," he whispered, voice dropping lower than John thought possible.The velvety tones seemed to have a direct link to John's cock.

"Bedroom," he ordered, pushing Sherlock in the direction of his room.

Sherlock flashed a sharp grin at him, stepping back to release John from the wall. He maintained his mischievous eye-contact, walking backwards, padding barefoot through the kitchen. His clever fingers capably slipped his shirt-buttons open. John thought he was glorious. He said as much.

Sherlock just chuckled throatily, “Are you going to join me?”

The bedroom was a mess, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care. As long as he didn’t lose a limb on the way to the bed everything was just grand. They tumbled together onto the unmade bed with hands grabbing, fingers kneading, legs tangling and crushing them even closer together.

John groaned, long and low, and his hips rolled, colliding with Sherlock’s. He reached over to dig his fingertips into a perfectly rounded arse, pulling Sherlock against him, jamming them together. He shoved his thigh between Sherlock’s, thrusting into him, feeling the unmistakeable bulge of an erection against him. Sherlock let out a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a whimper and quite possibly the sexiest noise John had ever even heard, and pushed back, finding a rhythm, rutting against him for a minute.

Sherlock made quick work of John’s cream jumper, tossing it aside to lie amid the rubble of his bedroom. Rolling John onto his back, he peppered kisses across his stubble. He trailed his lips down and pressed a gentle kiss to the spectacular bruise that was beginning to form on John’s neck. Sherlock grinned against it, thrilled to have this physical representation of the shift in their relationship.  
  
“Pleased with yourself?”  
  
“Very,” Sherlock rumbled, working his way down, mouth latching on to John’s nipple.  
  
He bucked, causing Sherlock to lose contact. “Sorry,” he said breathily.

Sherlock responded with a slow lick, blowing cool air across his chest, and John arched into the contact, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, to hold him gently in place.

“I need to see you,” Sherlock’s fingers snaked down to work at the button of John’s trousers, “Now.”  
  
Lifting his hips obediently, John shucked off his shoes as Sherlock thrust down the offending clothing.  
  
“Stop,” John said gently. Sherlock’s head snapped up, a worried look crossing his features, but John just laughed, “I cannot have sex with socks on. It’s just not right.”  
  
Sherlock broke out in a grin and laughed, “Very true,” he said, and stripped John bare.  
  
“Oh,” he said, “This is even better than I imagined.” Sherlock sat on his heels, and let his eyes rove over John.  
  
“You…. imagined?”  
  
“Do you have any idea how often I get myself off while thinking of you?”

Well, that was a turn up for the books, an entirely unexpected one. Was he serious? The sudden image in his mind was delightful. It wasn’t that he’d never thought of his friend masturbating, obviously, just that he’d never imagined him masturbating while thinking of John. Did he whisper his name, John wondered, did he moan it into his pillow as he surfed the edge of his orgasm, did he pant it into the air as he came?  
  
“I, er... Oh God.” Was about all he could manage to that.  
  
Sherlock was tugging off his own shirt, whipping his arm to free the last sleeve, and then he was on him, kissing down John’s body, tonguing at his belly button while his fingers dug into the ridges of his pelvis, breath hot and wet on his skin. It took John a second to realise what was coming, and he stared blindly at the ceiling while he came to terms with it. It didn’t take very long.  
  
He was prepared for the contact, the long wet lick up the underside of his suddenly  _very_  hard cock. The shiver as cold air followed the trail. He expected the tensing of his own muscles and the arch of his spine. The wriggling tongue testing the ridge around the head was new, but still not a shock, exactly. What surprised him was the noise Sherlock made, the decadent resonating groan as he slid his open mouth down, taking John inside. Sherlock’s fingers curled with pleasure, his nails almost cutting into the flesh of John’s hips.    
  
John needed something to hold onto, to anchor himself. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up with handfuls of hair and he wasn’t exactly clear on whether that would be acceptable to Sherlock. His fists opened and closed reflexively.  
  
“It’s fine,” Sherlock lifted his head and wiped the side of his mouth with a strangely delicate gesture. It seemed out of place in the situation. He glanced at John’s tensing hand, then back to his face and twitched his one shoulder in an almost shrug. “You can pull my hair. I like it.”  
  
John sucked in a sharp breath, threading his fingers once more through Sherlock’s curls. The almost purr like noise he heard in response sent a shock of vibration through John’s cock. Sherlock engulfed his erection swiftly, swirled his tongue one last time and suddenly John was coming. Arching his back, his eyes slammed shut as he saw stars. The force of his orgasm sent waves of pleasure coursing through him as Sherlock swallowed every last drop.  
  
When John opened finally his eyes, he saw Sherlock smiling up at him.  
  
“Hello,” he said, “Are you back to reality now?”   
  
John felt he should have been annoyed at Sherlock’s smug tone, but the endorphins flooding his body betrayed him. “Yes. Now come here,” he ordered, waiting patiently for Sherlock to slither up his body.

John pulled him down for a kiss, tasting a combination of himself and Sherlock.  It was wonderful, a physical representation of who they had become. They had been “detective and blogger” for so long that moving to “Sherlock and John” was such a natural step.

John suddenly hooked a leg around Sherlock, rolling him onto his back, “My turn.”  
  
His grin was predatory, dipping down to recapture Sherlock’s lips in a searing kiss.  Sherlock moaned as John nipped at his bottom lip, soothing it with his tongue. His lips drifted, moving down that magnificent neck. John sucked, leaving Sherlock with a bruise that matched his own.   
  
It was hard to believe he was actually doing this, that it was really happening. Hard to believe that it was Sherlock writhing beneath him, gasping his name. But it was, unmistakeably. It was Sherlock’s sweat-slick skin sliding against his own, Sherlock’s fingers fumbling to wrestle his own trousers open, and then Sherlock’s rock-hard prick twitching eagerly into the circle of John's fingers.  
  
“John,” he grabbed at him frantically as John tried to shift down the bed, “I think I should warn you, it’s been rather a while of... just this might only take a second.”  
  
It was all fine, and he tried to give him a look that conveyed that. There were no stamina competitions here, only exploration, indulgence, perhaps a touch of reverence. Sherlock’s trousers and boxers were shoved halfway down his thighs, making the act seem all the more desperate and exciting. John held his tongue out teasingly, millimetres away from its target while he held Sherlock’s wild gaze, before flattening it boldly against the head of Sherlock’s cock and using it to guide it into his mouth.  
  
Sherlock had been onto something, when he had said it might only take a second. John had no chance for anything he had planned, there was no time to experiment. Instead Sherlock lasted a couple of gentle sucks and slow twist of John’s head before giving a few short moans and trying to twist his hips away. John could feel the swelling of the tissue against his tongue and the tremors of the legs underneath him and laid a stilling hand on Sherlock’s belly. He was going nowhere, he wanted every moment of this orgasm.    
  
John had never actually given a blow job before, and while Sherlock’s orgasm was not a surprise, the feeling of his come as it hit the back of John’s throat was startling.  He couldn’t swallow all of it, a bit dribbling down his chin as Sherlock thrashed, moaning. Legs tightened around John’s shoulders, holding him in place, even though John couldn’t have moved away from the intoxicating feeling of making the genius lose control.  
  
John was impressed at the intensity of Sherlock’s orgasm. For someone who hadn’t had sex in awhile, he lasted much longer than John anticipated.  Finally, his muscles relaxed and he melted into the mattress, completely spent.   
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, “That was... unexpected.”

“How so?”

He ignored him, “How long is your refractory period, on average?”

A thud of something heavy and delicious impacted in his abdomen from the inside. Those were words he’d never anticipated hearing from this man. The words themselves were certainly helping with refractory periods.

“Just hang on a second here,” he finally managed, “What is this about?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. It was a simple question, John.”

“No, really. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, not at all. I just want to know what has brought all this on.”

Another eye roll. Another heavy sigh.  
  
John ploughed on regardless, “I just want to know you’re not going to go at it for a couple of rounds and then dive out of bed to write it all down and examine your findings, you know? Why did you just pounce out of the blue?”  
  
Sherlock smiled, one of those slow sweet absolutely filthy smiles, and pressed his lips to the ticklish skin beneath John’s ear. “You might want to check your phone bill, John. Your last call went on for houurrrrs,” he purred.  
  
“Eh?” John frowned, puzzled. It took him a moment to make sense of the words. His last call, his last phone call, would have been... To Sherlock, to make sure he hadn’t been burning the place down. It had lasted for less than a minute, he clearly remembered. Though not every word was easily recalled, he knew it had been an exchange of a few sentences, a sulky tone and a sense of not-quite-relief as he had hung up.  
  
Sherlock watched him carefully as he tried to figure it out.   
  
John was silent for a moment before carefully responding, “I didn’t hang up, did I?”  
  
Sherlock pressed a wet kiss to the hollow of John’s throat, “No, you didn’t.”  
  
“You heard me and Greg talking.”

“Yes.”

“And you…you figured it out, didn’t you?”

“John,” Sherlock said reproachfully, “I am a detective.”

“ _Consulting_  detective.”

“Yes. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still reeling from the fact that I will be receiving a  _very_  expensive mobile bill.”

“I’ll pay for it with Mycroft’s card. He’s been obnoxious about us since the beginning of our friendship.”

John laughed, “Well, then…”

“Refractory period?” Sherlock prodded when John didn’t respond.

“Oh, yes, umm… probably around quarter of an hour or so.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock said, nibbling on John’s ear.

“Hmm?”

“It means I get another fifteen minutes of snogging before I get to take you apart again.”


End file.
